Chaw. Chewed up and spat out. Despite the psychopathic tenacity that characterized his days on the diamond, good old Nails has got to be feeling a lot like the tobacco juice that he used to drool about the dugout. Currently penned up in San Fernando, California after being picked up for leasing cars with phony business and credit card info and possession of a solid stash of cocaine, ecstasy, and HGH—the necessary ingredients for any good-timing shenanigans—this is Dykstra’s second run in with the law in as many months. In addition to the 25 state counts of fraud, identity theft, possession, and GTA, the former Philly star also faces federal charges relating to his 2009 bankruptcy (bankruptcy fraud, obstruction of justice, etc.) which depicts the Dude in over his head for about $31 mil. Fuck.

With the extravagant sums of money he made playing baseball and as the seemingly successful car-wash magnate, all Lenny really had to do was tend the rabbits. But a dude that wound up just can’t get comfortable sitting still. Instead he ventured to test his luck as an entrepreneur, an investment analyst (even appearing on Mad Money, illustrating the extent to which Jim Kramer’s got his head shoved up his own ass), a publisher, and a real estate mogul. The disaster that ensued should have come as little surprise to any that followed his career on the field, and though tragic to a fan that idolized the manic slugger and drug-fueled all-star, it seems to be a simple case of destiny unbound—the ultimate culmination of baseball’s most colossal train-wreck.

The blind leading the blind.

(For a very prescient piece written about one of Dykstra’s crazed exploits at an Atlantic City Baccarat table before the ’93 season, please follow the link: “We’re On a Fucking Role, Dude”.)

Let me be clear. Lenny Dykstra, the man, the myth, the soon-to-be-convicted felon, was and will always be unequivocally my favorite baseball player on my favorite baseball team—the 1993 Philadelphia Phillies (Kruk, Philly H.O.F. interview on the ’93 Phillies)—of all time. I wore number 4 all throughout little league in the hope that I’d emulate his impassioned play, and would stuff entire packages of Big League Chew into my right cheek and spit shredded gum to emulate his reckless abandon—and because it looked Bad Ass. I was emotionally shattered over the baseball strike of ’94 and now, despite the large repository of evidence suggesting that Nails was always little more than a cheating, fraudulent bastard with unused and abused latent talent, I find myself seriously distressed over Dykstra’s demise.

However, I do find the whole situation laughably entertaining. It’s absolutely hilarious that anyone would take financial advice from, let alone enter into any sort of business arrangement with, a known lunatic with a propensity for hard drugs and burning through large stacks of cash with minimal regard for the consequential damage. I mean, he was the guy sitting next to Darryl Strawberry when he was on the Mets blowing lines on the back of bus (Yes, a bus. While all other teams surely had planes at this point, fuck the Mets. They get a bus.)Shit, he’d do key-bumps between innings just to keep limber—fired up and ready to ignite at any moment.

Dynamite on the field and hazardously explosive off of it, Dykstra’s antics (like smashing his Benz all loaded up on booze and benzos with Darren Daulton in the passenger seat following a John Kruk Bachelor Party) led many to gawk in awe, wondering how long the freak-show could possibly sustain itself. But as it turned out, Nails sort of spontaneously combusted and will now almost certainly be left to fizzle out in a jail cell.

Well, cocaine’s a hell of a drug and Lenny…he was a hell of a ball player.

The only Bruins jersey I'd ever seen before last week. Let em' have it Bob.

First off: I’d like to state for the record that both the NHL and NBA play-offs are entirely too long, rendering the regular season into a preposterously bloated waste of time. That said, I’d also like to get this off my chest: Fuck the Bruins.

For some ungodly reason—and to the dismay of all well-intentioned sports fans elsewhere—Boston sports have had an unprecedented string of good luck in the sporting domain over the past decade. While this recent success has served to inflate the average New Englander’s perverted sense of self-worth far beyond levels traditionally accepted by the decent, God-fearing majority, to the well-trained eye it fails to cover up the grimy truth: Boston fans are about as loyal as a crack-whore at a roller derby.

Trust me.

Since when did the Bruins have an established fan base? Other than a few errant and poorly timed text messages last spring (before the Flyers proceeded to pull out one of the greatest comebacks in NHL play-off history), this spring season was the first I’ve really ever heard of the strange group of hockey playing ruffians known as the B’s. Nobody so much as breathed their name during my four years of college. Sure you got your standard alcoholics and unemployed street mongrels that constitute the majority of the NHL target demographic, but outside of that strange and sordid inner circle the Bruins were a non-entity. They were like a poor bastard wounded in battle and left to behind to die at the hands of a savage enemy. Unspoken of. But now that they’ve got the cup there are vendors on the streets selling puke colored jerseys so that woodworked multitudes can look good and stylish for Saturday’s victory parade. Suddenly it seems that everyone’s a fan.

And this should come as no surprise really, though it still justifies a generous degree of bitter derision. It must be pointed out that despite the delusional grandeur attribute to their beloved Celtics, the first Celtics jersey I ever saw during my time in Boston said ‘Garnett’ on the back. This is a city that either rooted tepidly for the Giants or didn’t much care about football until about a decade ago when that expansion team of theirs started winning games. And don’t let them fool you about the Red Sox either. Though they may bemoan the hard-luck times of their junior league joke-squad, the fans are a bunch of day-gamers who usually bounce by the seventh inning. Fenway’s more of a business-meeting destination than a ballpark—a boardroom for geriatrics and Jesus freaks. There’s no tailgating, no nitrous, and no Cadillac time.

So if the Boston beat’s got you down this week and you’re thinking about mindless destruction—I’m talking to you Vancouver—just remember sporting success is cyclical. As soon as their teams trend south those Boston fans will drift off once again into obscure oblivion. Until then we can only hope it rains on the gay parade tomorrow just like it did on the gay parade last Saturday.

That’s right you unruly ruffians. The stage is set for primetime hooliganary tonight as Cliff Lee takes the mound against Houston in the Phillies season opener reprise…or should I say Lee-prise. The Big Red Dog is set to rage at 7:05 EST tonight and I will be joining the crazed masses at CBP still reeling off of yesterday’s come-back thriller. The Philly Phaithful have been looking forward to this day since good ol’ Ruben delivered the off-season Cliffmas miracle, and the much anticipated debut-times-2 has phinally arrived. So grab a case of yangers, some cash for the nitrous mafia, a few spare balloons, and big fat Schmidter and settle in for a surely dazzling display. Gotta love baseball season…it’s Cadillac Time baby.

Phillies pitching coach Rich Dubee is certainly going to be emanating that chillin-no-violence vibe from the dugout this season.

Sour Diesel

With an arsenal of pure potency lacing his pitching stash, he can finally focus on the more nuanced aspects of that long and arduous journey to the postseason, like rollin’ up phat burners worthy of his name.

While seedy slobs carelessly remark that Dubee has the easiest job in baseball, these obnoxious nubes fail to appreciate the Zen-like countenance necessary to preserve the solidarity of such a heady crew.

Pineapple Express

A Zen-like countenance that usually wafts from the green fields of California, pioneered by the likes of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and made famous by the Zen-master himself: Phil Jackson – you’re high if you think Jackson isn’t…all the time.

The smooth and even-keeled burn of a good Dubee is difficult to attain without the necessary experience and technique, and it is all too often taken for granted.

OG Kush

It’s only when a burner boats that one truly notices the difference between a clean roll—what I like to call a J-Roll—and some sort of hack-job imitation that is so often pawned off on the public as the real thing. But this aggression will not stand—neither on Dubee’s bench nor in his bullpen—and the Philly crowd is often extremely fastidious when it comes to gettin’ high.

Train Wreck

You can be sure that Rich Doobie will be brandishing his cannabis card at every turn this season, highlighting Halladay’s Sour Diesel (I hear it was the Doc himself that hooked Dubee up with the prescription), Cliff “Lee-prise”Lee’s Pineapple Express, Oswalt’s OG Kush, the Train Wreck of the Cole-train, and even Blanton’s shwag snicklefritz to keep the hot-boxed crowds at Citizen’s Bank Park sharin’ in the groove in a high-flyin’ 2011 baseball season.

Like this:

It’s almost spring and with all the excitement of college hoops, the start of a wildly anticipated 2011 baseball season, and the opening of Phishin’ season slated for Memorial Day weekend in upstate NY, it’s easy to share in the groove and lose sight of the potential apocalypse looming just around the bend. And no, I’m not talking about the deficit, socialism, Islam, Middle East riots, or Japanese catastrophe. I’m talking about soggy nachos, flat beer, and a general sense of despair surrounding the fact that this year my best option for Sunday afternoons may be to sit around getting high watching figure skating on ABC.

Fuck.

With over $9 billion in annual revenue at stake (not to mention the mortgages of the thousands of everyday Americans who have their careers and financial well-being inextricably tangled in NFL gameday – stadium employees, restaurant owners, bookies, shylocks, etc…) you’d think the owners and the NFLPA would be logically induced to come to some sort of agreement for the common good of mankind, right? Wrong. The owners have taken a hard-lined position reminiscent of Mussolini, forcing the players union to decertify and take it to the octagon.

Who needs cheerleaders with this sexy crew prowling the sidelines?

Since the bargaining relationship with the NFLPA has ended, the NFL is no longer immune to antitrust scrutiny, and players are now able to bring lawsuits against the NFL. The courtroom battle is set to begin with the Preliminary Injunction hearing to end the lockout on April 6th, as the players have filed a class action anti-trust lawsuit against the NFL entitled—get this—Tom Brady v. NFL. Looks like Brady finally got that reality T.V. show he’s always wanted. Additional named plaintiffs include Peyton Manning, Drew Brees, Vincent Jackson, Osi Umenyiora, and incoming rookie Von Miller among others.

While litigation ensues it is important to keep a positive approach and focus on the upsides of a squandered 2011 NFL season. As an avid G-Men supporter I, for one, will be happy not having to tolerate that utterly confused look on Coughlin’s face when something – literally, anything – happens on the field of play due to his poor understanding of the rules of football. If there was no season, Eli Manning might finally put up a touchdown to interception ratio worthy of his contract. And most importantly, failure to play a 2011 NFL season might deter good old Tiki Barber from trying to make some sort of pathetic comeback.

But, as much as I’d like to deny it, I would certainly find myself in dire straits if the season were actually canceled. Sure we can still get drunk, have backyard barbeques, or even watch college ball—ugly as it seams—but Fall without the NFL would be like, well, Phish without the Phunk. In short…it would be a bummer. As fans we must call on both parties to resolve their differences and get their shit in order. We must remind them that the success of the NFL is derived entirely from fan satisfaction, and without us it’s just a warped piece of pigskin. And, if all else fails, at least we’ll have Brady in the courtroom to throw his hands up like a pussy lookin’ for that roughing-the-passer flag. If anyone can get the call, it’s definitely him.